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Date: Mon, 30 Jun 2008 06:46:52 -0500
From: "may allgire"
To: dgtized at gmail.com
Subject: Letter For Marcel

Dear Marcel,

I love you. These are words I never spoke to you. I don't know
why. Maybe it's because our society is such that we don't often tell
our friends how much we truly love them. But I suppose it isn't fair
to blame "society." It was me. I could have said it and I didn't.

So I need you to know that I love you. I loved you in an instant, that
first instant when you walked through our front door. You remember the
night when you came over with Kris and Rama and we all played Trivial
Pursuit?

You were just that kind of person: easy to love and easily loving. You
soothed and relaxed. I think this is because you were comfortable as a
human being--the kind of comfort that is attained by intense personal
reflection, close observation of the human condition, and
philosophical analysis of the world around us. I considered you an
enlightened and mysterious being. Kris once mentioned that he had met
your parents on a trip to Chicago. "Are they Buddhist monks?" I asked,
just barely joking. I imagined that these were the only individuals
from which you could have spawned.

It was readily apparent that you had put some considerable thought
into living. I had the feeling that each moment was important to
you. You breathed it in and stored it for future contemplation. It was
a better time when you were around. Often, at the end of a pleasant
night, I would realize that you hadn't spoken more than a few
sentences for the entire evening. But you said what you needed to
say. It was always integral and always memorable.

You inspired me in ways that I can only describe as vaguely
religious. I have such tremendous admiration for your strength of
character, your peaceful nature, and your unwavering morality. Last
week I broke a DVD that belonged to the library. I didn't mean to do
it; it just cracked. On my way to the library I considered stealthily
dropping it off at the Return Desk.  But then I thought of you.

I have gotten into a strange habit. Sometimes, when I am in a prickly
situation, I ask myself: What would Marcel do? Yes, I know this is
unbearably corny, but it helps me. And so I approached the librarian
and owned up to cracking the DVD. I felt good getting into my car. I'm
sure I'll be receiving the bill any day now. (Thanks a lot, brother!)

This is not to say that it works every time. It only works when I have
enough presence of mind to remember my little mantra. A few days later
I got into an altercation with a woman at the gas station. She was
screaming at me and calling me names. I screamed back and called her
names. I felt bad getting into my car. It all happened so fast.

Last night it happened again. Some teenagers started a fight on
Delmar.  Barron and I tried to break it up. I yelled and cursed and
told them to go home. Again, I felt bad. I thought of how Barron told
me you had stopped a similar fight only weeks prior. You jumped up
without a thought and stepped right into the fray. But I am sure that
you handled it better than I. I am sure that you were calm and tried
to reason with them, rather than yelling and cursing. You were always
a gentleman. Always.

You never failed me as a friend. You must have had faults, but I can't
begin to imagine what they were. You appreciated life. You were kind
to all living things. You were genuine and gentle. You cherished.

I see you so very clearly. How you consulted with your family before
making major decisions. When you rented a car just to pick up a girl
for a date.  The way you made us cat toys and tried to cradle each of
our cats like babies. You giving a handful of money to every homeless
person who asked.  Your reluctance to shit talk. You once gave Barron
a Thank You card for no apparent reason. The way you fretted over your
research monkeys and were visibly upset when one of them had suffered
a burn. All the strange and seemingly unrelated goodies that you
carried in your man bag. Your readiness to break into a song. The wind
blowing wildly through your hair as we rode the ferry to Alton. When
you stood outside our window blaring James Brown, so excited to leave
for your trip.

And now the hardest part of this letter. I must tell you that I have
failed you in a monstrous and spectacular way. My uncle was in a
terrible motorcycle accident. He is lucky to be alive, even luckier
not to be paralyzed. This happened shortly after you had left on your
motorcyle trip.  When my mom called to tell me, my first thought was:
Marcel! I felt an immediate and pressing need to warn you. I wanted to
talk to you and remind you to be careful.

The kicker is that I didn't. I didn't call. I didn't write. I didn't
send you a text message. I kept reminding myself to do it. I could
make up excuses. I was busy. I was distracted. I was
preoccupied. These are all lies. I failed. I feel sick to think that
if only I had given you that warning, maybe I wouldn't be writing this
letter that has no place to go.  How can I apologize for something of
this magnitude? I am haunted.

Thursday, June 26th, 3:02 p.m. My world shattered. I don't believe
it. I simply do not believe it. This is unacceptable. As Helen said,
you were one of the good guys. My heart knows what my brain won't
accept. As you were leaving, I said to you, "I hope you find what
you're looking for." You paused and then replied, "I'm just looking to
be looking."

For now, I think I'll just pretend that you decided not to come
back. That you're still looking.

Love Always and Forever,
May